


Lament

by Judith Proctor (Watervole)



Category: Morgan's Boy
Genre: Filk, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-28
Updated: 2008-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watervole/pseuds/Judith%20Proctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Judith Proctor</p><p>The tune is Shanagolden, also used for 'I Gave My Love a Cherry'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lament

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
>  
> 
> **Original Author's Note:**
> 
>  
> 
> Written during the foot and mouth epidemic in memory of 'Morgan's Boy'.

There are hills and farms in England,  
In Scotland, Ireland, Wales,  
And death hangs heavy o'er them,  
As foot and mouth comes to the vales.

CHORUS  
For the funeral pyres are burning,  
And the black smoke fills the sky,  
And your ghost will never leave me,  
And your memory never die.

Oh, Morgan, son of Owen,  
Will your soul be ever free,  
You once were bound to Blainau,  
But now you're haunting me.

I see you in each farmer,  
Who stands in quiet despair,  
Your face haunts every image,  
And it's more than I can bear.

The suicide no rest finds,  
For his spirit can't move on,  
How many more will join you  
Before this plague is done?


End file.
